


Two Jerks & a Kitchen

by TheColorBlue



Category: Ratatouille (2007)
Genre: Cortical Visual Impairment, Disabled Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheColorBlue/pseuds/TheColorBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story of <i>Ratatouille</i>, if Alfredo had been visually impaired, and Remy was the talking rat who managed to manuever them into a position of culinary prestige. </p><p>This fic was inspired by the work of blind chef <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=win3_Y7LaSk">Christine Ha</a>, winner of the third season of <i>MasterChef</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Jerks & a Kitchen

His mother had always said that his awkward clumsiness was going to be the death of him, but thank God that the real-time event didn’t _actually_ kill him. After a bike accident last year, involving rain, the nighttime, and a truck, Alfredo Linguini was diagnosed with cortical visual impairment as a result of brain trauma. Farid, his friend and neighbor in the flat next-door, had been an enormous help. While Linguini had been traipsing around trying to adjust and undergoing therapy and all of that, Farid had helped him when he could by going out with Alfredo when he needed groceries or to do errands, and helping to reorganize the flat. Alfredo had been living with his mother at the time. Before the accident, he had been steadily burning his way through jobs that always seemed to lose after about, oh, a week or so, if he was _lucky_.

“Alfredo,” Farid said, “also, you’re going to need to do something about that clumsiness of yours or I think you’re going to be in huge trouble.” 

Alfredo had, of course, tripped over the laundry basket that he had just filled with freshly folded clothing; now he was lying on the floor, and please no, don’t make him get up.

The world had become a dark, scary place, full of things that he could trip over and one of these days he was going to break something, maybe a body part, and no, don’t make him get up. 

\---

…That had been some time ago. Alfredo could get around okay, nowadays, but he still was prone to banging his elbows. 

Farid had since moved out of the city, and Alfredo's mother had passed away (peacefully, in her sleep from a heart attack, Alfredo liked to hope that Heaven was treating her well) and also Alfredo had since discovered that he was the secret love-child of his mother and a world-famous chef (the lawyers were still ironing out the details of his inheritance), his former boss may not have been figuratively out to destroy him, and oh, also, _also_ , there was a talking rat living with him in his brand new flat. A rat was always telling him what to do and puppeteering him like a tiny, furry puppetmaster or whatever it was. 

It had been a long, weird year. 

And, look, don’t get him wrong or anything, Remy was an okay guy, they could get along, it was just—HMMM. 

Look, the only way that Alfredo could put it was that Remy had changed from a timid but talented rat to a fellow bloated on his own ego. It was really starting to grate on Alfredo, he didn’t like the way that Remy would lord himself over Colette—who, by the way, had _trained them_ —and especially he didn’t—he hated when—

Okay, he understood Remy’s frustration about having to hide who he was and what he could do. He could get that. 

But it was completely, so utterly inappropriate for Remy to act like he was the only person with talent in that kitchen, or to say things like…to say outright that Alfredo would have been completely helpless, or useless in the kitchen without Remy… 

And to that, frankly: Alfredo had been pissed. 

Also, he had left Remy at the restaurant. Serve the little bastard right if he had to sleep in the restaurant for a night, instead of his own cozy bed in a flat with a view of the city. 

\---

The last few months had been a delicate balance between Alfredo moving in his own natural way—that is, like someone with visual impairment—in combination with Remy’s little puppeteering routine. 

The thing is, Alfredo wouldn’t have been the only blind chef in the world—there was, for instance, Chef Christine Ha in America, Colette had mentioned about the chef when he and Colette had started working together—but aside from everyone treating him like some kind of gimmick or novelty for the first week, it had been a hugely complicated business for Alfredo. The kitchen was a hazardous place, even under normal circumstances. Alfredo just hadn’t felt comfortable, or safe, for that whole first week, even with Remy nudging him along, or keeping him from sticking his hand into a boiling pot.

Colette had walked him around. She’d familiarized him with the layout of the kitchen, the contents of the pantry, and had helped him to collect the ingredients for that first test of his—well, Remy’s—culinary talents. 

Remy was, of course, eyeballing everything through the chef hat and puppeteering away, with an occasional sniff at the ingredients, but that’s not how Alfredo would have done things, had he been working alone. 

Alfredo tried to feel his way through these situations. He felt the weight of bowls and cooking implements. He touched all the ingredients, smelling them before passing them up to Remy—whilst pretending the gesture was some kind of weird, maybe partly superstitious behavioral habit of his. He had to pretend, and Remy had to pretend—but also, neither of them were pretending at all. Alfredo learned what it felt like to hold a knife in his hand, to expertly wield it without chopping off bits of himself (well, except maybe occasionally). He learned how to kneed through dough for fresh pasta, how to feel fruits and vegetables for freshness and ripeness, how to smell his way through a pantry of spices for the right herbs, and how to listen for the sizzle of a fish cooking perfectly in a pan. 

Remy might have been the one doing all of the experimental cooking and creative thinking, but it wasn’t like Alfredo had suddenly passed out and Remy had taken complete control over his body. It was a _partnership_ , and Alfredo wasn’t going to put up with Remy lording himself around like this.

\---

The night that Alfredo left Remy at the restaurant, Alfredo decided to make himself pancakes for dinner. He needed comfort food. Remy and Colette had helped him to organize the kitchen for ease of access, and Linguni knew exactly where everything was. 

They weren’t going to be fancy pancakes. Alfredo wasn’t a masterchef, he didn’t have the head or patience for delicate and multi-step recipes if he was just going to cook on the fly, but he was a lot more patient, and careful, than he was a year ago. He could put together a decent pancake batter—from scratch, even! not something from out of a box. Fresh eggs, fresh flour, milk, butter, baking powder, and sugar and salt to taste. He whipped everything together in a mixing bowl, and cooked the mix perfectly on the frying pan. He laid two pancakes out on a plate, spread vanilla yogurt on, and topped them with fresh berries.

He might have been trying to prove something to someone. 

He could have ordered out for dinner, it would have been easy, but instead he was staying up into the wee hours of the morning, making self-righteous pancakes. 

“You made pancakes.” 

The observation came from the floor, and sounded a little surprised, and Alfredo started sawing away aggressively at his soft and fluffy pancakes. 

They were, by the way, _delicious_.

“You want one?” Alfredo asked after swallowing his first bite. “I’ve still got some batter left.”

“Umm, maybe. Also, look, I’m…” and it sounded like this was being dragged out of Remy, “I’m sorry. I was out of line.” 

“Yeah, you were,” Alfredo said, undiplomatically. 

“But I _hate_ seeing you take credit for my work.”

That made Alfredo pause. 

“Well,” Alfredo said, but less aggressive now. “I hate it when you act like all of your cooking knowledge and talent came from Heaven in a golden blessing, and nobody matters in the kitchen except you.” 

“Well nobody in the kitchen actually knows I _exist_ except you, so maybe it all evens out,” Remy said, bitter and sarcastic, and then there was all of the weight in the room, and the terrible absurdity of the entire situation. 

Not for the first time, Alfredo wondered if they should have told, should tell Colette, but Remy seemed to get cagey about all of that business, so he didn’t know. 

Then Remy sighed, and said, “Okay, you don’t need to get up, I’ll make my own pancake. Thanks for prepping the batter for me.”

“You’re welcome,” Alfredo said, waving his fork a bit. Belatedly, he hoped he hadn’t splattered vanilla yogurt somewhere, inadvertently. Like on the wall. “And, hey. Sorry I…ahh, made you walk home.” 

Alfredo could hear little rat feet scurrying across the floor, then shimmy up to the counter, and then there was a laugh, “Yeah, you ass. But I guess the exercise gave me an appetite, so.” 

Alfredo listened to the sound of the gas stove being turned on, and Remy humming a bit to himself, and then he took another bite from his pancake.


End file.
